


I. Let the rain wash away (all the pain of yesterday)

by velithya



Series: Coming Home [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIII
Genre: Chocobos, F/F, Post-Game, pre slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 03:54:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velithya/pseuds/velithya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all for nothing if she's slept another five hundred years, all for nothing if, once again, she's too <i>late</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I. Let the rain wash away (all the pain of yesterday)

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to [Fang-Lightning](http://fang-lightning.dreamwidth.org/) dreamwidth and livejournal communities on 25th December 2011.

**I. Let the rain wash away (all the pain of yesterday)**

While she's crystal, time doesn't pass.

***

The first time, she can feel the crystal creeping up her limbs, a heavy coldness weighing her down. She remembers gasping as the numbness spreads, tilting her head back as though it would keep the crystal at bay, horrified (although horrified at _what_ she can't remember, thoughts vanishing into a twisting emptiness no matter how hard she tries). 

When she wakes, sprawled on the floor of the Vestige like a child's discarded toy, she's gasping still, chest heaving. She sits bolt upright, shuddering with mingled horror and relief as she sees her limbs whole, feeling returning in tingling bursts from her fingers and toes.

She draws her knees up toward her chest, awkward and stiff like she's exhausted (falling through the air, ash in her mouth and screams in her ears, but she won't remember, _can't_ remember), her motions jerky . She takes a deep breath, and her knees are warm when she wraps her arms around them, a point of normalcy in the _wrongness_ that surrounds her.

She realises then that _everything's_ blank, although she can remember her name, her clan, her childhood. She remembers the doors of the Vestige opening before her, walking the steps calmly with someone by her side, remembers the fal'Cie turning towards them- Her breathing quickens, panic coiling low in her stomach, and she squeezes her eyes closed. She knows something's missing, can feel the loss like an _ache_ in her mind, an ache that only worsens as she tries to press further, thoughts twisting back on themselves and making her dizzy.

She starts at a touch on her shoulder, head jerking up and eyes wild-

"Fang," Vanille says, and she's saying it as though she's been saying it a while, concern written all over her face. "Fang, are you okay?"

She sucks in a breath, holding it for a moment, two, and then blows it out. She can't remember what's just happened, the recent past, but this - this she can do in her sleep.

"Yeah," she says, and dredges up a smile to paste over her face. It's not real, nothing close to, but Vanille smiles too brightly and throws her arms around her.

"Great!" she says, and Fang's so relieved that Vanille believes her that she doesn't press.

When Vanille pulls away, she uncurls her limbs and takes a stab at standing. She's a little shaky, but she thinks she's allowed to stagger a little, legs weak but _there_ , again her own flesh and blood.

"Where are we?" Vanille says, and Fang looks around, the scrolled stone work and towering ceilings surrounding them. 

"We're in the Vestige, I think," she says at last. "We should get back to Oerba, they'll be worried."

"Probably!" Vanille says, and then "Oh, there's your lance!" and dashes over to it.

In retrospect, she should have known what was going on, what Vanille was hiding. But in the moment, it was too easy to let it slip past, too bound up in barely holding herself together to worry about Vanille. Besides, if there was something wrong Vanille would tell her. 

She always had before.

***

It isn't until they find the exit and work out they're nowhere _near_ Oerba that she starts to worry. And by then, it's already too late, _they're_ too late. Five hundred years in the blink of an eye, and after all that, it was all for nothing.

***

The second time, she welcomes it.

They're burning, _she's_ burning, buried in the molten shell of Cocoon and pouring herself into it, and it's running like fire through her veins, power heady and painful at the same time. When she feels herself slip apart from Vanille, the strength of Ragnarok slipping away, it's all she can do to keep their hands clasped against the boiling muck they're mired in, certain that at any moment her gasps will turn to screams. She's given everything for this, and it seems certain that instead they will die in agony.

It's a relief, then, when the burning evens out into numbness, the familiar feeling of crystal creeping up her limbs far better than the alternative.

This time, she knows, she _remembers_ \- remembers every moment, every choice, every smile. Every promise. She won't die in agony, not today - and Lightning had said, hadn't she? _Everyone was there. Even you_. 

She just prays, as the crystal reaches higher, nearly to her heart. Prays that this time, when she opens her eyes in what will seem to her just a moment, that not too much time will have passed. That this time, she'll remember.

She's lived her life amongst broken promises, but this one, oh, _this one_ she wants to keep.

She blinks, and-

***

When she wakes, she's alone.

***

"Vanille? Vanille!"

It's too much to contemplate, that she might have been crystal so long, _too_ long - no sign of Vanille, no crystal statue lying near to her and nothing but crystal dust on her hand, where moments before waking she's sure she'd been holding on so tightly.

"Vanille," she whispers, because if Vanille isn't here...

How long has she slept, this time?

 _Lightning_ , she thinks, and then buries that thought deep inside, next to her heart that seems, still, to be crystalline, that single name threatening to shatter her. Because she remembers, this time she _remembers_ , but it's all for nothing if she's slept another five hundred years, all for nothing if, once again, she's too _late_.

"I made a promise," she murmurs, and it doesn't matter that there's nothing but empty air in this echoing crystal grave, no-one to hear her.

She can't contemplate any other option. This promise, she's going to _keep_.

***

She slings her lance over her back and picks a direction at random. There's wind, here, breeze sharp and with a hint of _cold_ that threatens bad weather once she finally reaches open air, but the crystal has so many odd holes and passages that she has no real way to tell where the wind is coming from, whistling past her in a discordant chorus. She turns her face to the cold, finds the strongest origin point, and starts walking.

The crystal is slick beneath her feet, and after a few steps she pulls her lance back down, flicking out the points to jam them into the floor and help herself along. Her progress is slow, slower still when the passage she's chosen starts to rise under her, leaving a trail of scattered crystal shards in her wake.

The passage twists and turns, and although it branches several times, each time she closes her eyes and turns her face to the wind, letting it guide her.

 _Hold on, Lightning. I'm coming_.

***

It's almost a shock when she turns a corner and instead of more ice-blue crystal, in front of her is the open sky, mottled white with clouds. She hastens her steps, mindful of the way the floor beneath shatters off in jagged edges out into nothing, and looks out, wind stronger now and lifting the hair from her neck and catching the skirt of her sari out in a bell behind her.

She's high, so very high up. Gran Pulse is spread below her, patchwork of green and darker green and in the distance, rising red mountains that meet the clouds. There's a scattering of white over everything, and it takes her a moment to realise that that must be _snow_.

It had been spring on Gran Pulse, last she'd ridden across the Archylte Steppe, which means she's been asleep at least most of a year. _Maybe more_ , the thought creeps unbidden in her mind, and she shakes her head sharply as though to dislodge it, careful not to overbalance where she stands too close to the edge.

She crouches down against the crystal, leans out, and looks down.

Below her, a twisting spire of crystal connects her current perch to the ground. It's rough and jagged, but if that's the only way down, then climb she will.

She straightens, leaning on her lance. She'd never been one for air magic, but if she can stabilise herself with an Aero, maybe she can float herself down instead.

She closes her eyes, lifts a hand, and _calls_.

The effect is immediate; she's everything at once, hot and cold, compressed and stretched, crushed and torn apart. A blast of _something_ shatters its way out of her, and she's flung backwards down the crystal passage, landing heavily on her shoulder, lance clattering from her hand.

She takes a moment to breathe, and when she opens her eyes, glances for the first time at her brand.

She's lived for what feels like so long with the brand, with the knowledge that at any moment, she could turn, her body and mind twisted and shattered into a Cie'th. She doesn't know what to name the emotions that overcome her now, when she looks at her shoulder and sees nothing but clean, unblemished skin.

She shudders out a breath, because until this moment, it hadn't struck her - the enormity of what had happened, what she and the others had done, that moment in Eden's cradle when they'd struck the final blow against Orphan, what she and Vanille had done afterwards.

But she can't disbelieve her eyes, or her fingers, when she runs them over her shoulder and the raised whorls and lines of her brand are nowhere to be felt. It's finally over, and she should be feeling relief but instead she can feel panic seeping in around the edges, because they might have saved Cocoon but the last image she has of the others is them floating away in the midst of all the crystal dust, in the middle of everything, and what if she has awoken in time and everyone is not a hundred years gone but just dead?

What if they didn't save them?

She closes her eyes and lets the wind tear over her, and does her best, for long moments, not to think of anything at all.

***

When she finally rises, collecting her lance in hands that barely shake, she's more composed. So, she still has some magic, but it's clearly more of an effort than she can handle at the moment, and completely uncontrolled. She's like as not to die of dehydration up here before she can master enough control to float herself down, and without a brand she has no idea of how to call Bahamut to her aid, if indeed the Eidolons would answer, their moment of assistance from the Goddess come and possibly gone.

She will have to climb, after all.

She starts by tearing some strips from her sari to bind her hands. The silk is thin, but the ribboned edging is thicker, and it's that she tears off and wraps around her palms to protect them.

She can only hope that wherever she is, whenever it was, Vanille also made it down safely. At least her weapon had ropes.

She only has her lance, but she knows it can more than hold her weight, and the multiple points will anchor her quite firmly into the crystal. When her hands are bound in gold and silver, another strip of blue to bind her hair out of her way, she kneels again at the edge, and makes the first thrust of her lance into the crystal spire.

Then she twists the sections of the staff apart, takes a good hold of the third still solidly in the crystal, and rolls off the edge.

***

It's slow going. The chain between the sections of her lance only lengthens it so much, and it's difficult to pull out the top section once she has the third properly secured. But she was born to ride Bahamut through the sky, and she becomes adept at balancing, one foot solid on the flat of her blades and one light on the grip as she reaches up above her.

The sky gradually darkens, bright point behind the clouds that she can only assume is the sun getting lower and lower, until finally it vanishes behind the red mountains, light leeching faster and faster from the sky.

She makes her final few lance blows in near-darkness, aiming for an opening she can see in the crystal spire below her. When she takes the final swing, both feet landing solidly on the crystal, she can barely see her hand in front of her face. 

She pulls her lance free, flicking it back together, and carefully feels her way into the opening on her hands and knees, casting out in front of her in case the ground is unstable. The wind has picked up at some point during her descent, and it's almost howling now. On any other day she'd be feeling it, hearing it singing to her, but today has been so very long, and all she feels now is tired, and cold.

The passage turns a corner, and the wind immediately drops. She has no food, no water; no belongings to make a camp. She sets her lance down against the wall and unwinds her sari. It will have to do for a blanket, and she wraps herself as best she can, curling in as small a ball as she can manage.

She will resume her descent with the light. For now, she needs to rest.

***

She wakes three times during the night, each time convinced that she is crystal; that she is turning to crystal and the next time she wakes the world will be dust around her, everyone she knows dead and gone. She checks her skin with shaking hands, patting herself down until she is satisfied she is flesh and blood. She's cold, wrung out and uncertain. She doesn't know, _can't_ know, how much of what she's feeling is nightmare, and how much is real.

She can only hope that none of it is true, that everyone will still be alive, that she has not slept so long.

She's not very good at hope.

***

When the first light of dawn reflects down the crystal passage she's already awake. She struggles out of the tangle her sari has become, shaking it out and wrapping it back around her. The familiar motions are calming, and as she straightens the folds and tucks the silk around her she clears her mind. She has no focus now except of her own choosing, and until she has more information she cannot assume. For now, she needs to descend this spire, and when she is on Gran Pulse once again she will think further.

She lifts her lance, and turns her face to the wind.

***

It must be several hours later that she makes the final drop to the ground, although by that point it's more of a slide, the spire widening at its base, vast balls of crystal spikes growing across and around it. She wrenches her lance free and snaps it together, flicking the points in with a twirl of her wrist and seating it again at her back. She has made it; she cannot say she is home, because her home now is a person, not a place - but she is back on Gran Pulse, and that is better than being trapped high up a crystal spire with no magic or provisions.

She strikes off away from the spire, trying to make sense of where she is. When she feels she is far enough away she turns a slow circle. The world is blanketed in patches of white, but she's seen Gran Pulse under snow before, and unless she's been asleep too long (she hasn't, she can't have, please, Goddess, let it not be so) the landscape shouldn't have changed that much from that she knows.

She turns another circle, and another, and finally puts her back to the mountains and just looks. She knows about where Cocoon used to hang in the sky, and assuming it fell straight down before the spire caught it, she thinks she's somewhere in the hills above the Archylte Steppe, although she's not entirely sure.

It's as good a direction as any, though, and if she can make it to the Steppe she can find the valley where the chocobo nest, and then she can acquire much better transport for her search.

She strikes out, breath misting in the air in front of her, and concentrates on the solid feel of her feet on the ground, the rush of blood in her ears and the fresh chill air on her face, anything to keep her thoughts calm and not mired in chaos.

She'll find them. She'll _find_ them.

***

It takes her time. She takes a rest several times, but with the chill in the air and her clothing more suited to Oerba's sunny climate than here, she can't be still for too long without the chill settling in her muscles and making her stiff. She settles for periods of walking where she's not pushing herself, just ambling along rather than her usual long strides.

The sun, still hidden in clouds, travels up and over the arc of the sky. She feels the pinch of hunger in her belly, the thirst in her mouth and throat and pushes on; snow can only do so much, and the Steppe will have fresh water, food she can forage. The sun travels on, and it's not until it's halfway again to the horizon that the ground levels out, and she is on the Steppe.

She knows where she is now; she strikes out toward the centre of the Steppe, where she knows the lake lies halfway between her and the valley of chocobo. The birds sometimes gathered near the lake as well, and if luck is with her she will find one there who will consent to bear her.

The snow around her is dirty, trampled in paths by some manner of passing animal. She sees nothing but a few oretoise, though; perhaps with the cold the others are all sheltering, and she will not contemplate a future where some cataclysm has wiped the smaller creatures out, she _won't_. She resolutely pulls her mind away, back to how she's feeling, the cold in her fingers and toes, the rhythm of her breath. She used to be so good at focus, before a fal'Cie's lies and a woman's smile tore it all away.

She comes over a rise and there in front of her is the lake. She has made better time than she expected, although when she checks the sun's position she can see the journey has still taken her some time. She approaches cautiously, in case other beasts have made the lake their home, but there seems to be nothing else about, not even the sheep.

She slows as she approaches the water, kneeling down at the edge. There's a thin crust of ice at the very edges, the rest of the water rippling in the wind. She takes her time unwinding the strips of ribbon and silk from her hands, setting them aside, then leans forward and scoops water to her mouth, trying not to gulp too quickly.

The water burns with cold all the way down, and it's still the most wonderful thing in the world.

***

When she has drunk her fill she sits back on her heels and looks around. There is still enough light left in the day; she will take a walk around the surroundings and see if any chocobo are around, and if not, if there is a sheltered place for her to spent the night.

She collects her silk and wraps her hands again - she doesn't expect to do any more climbing, but they are more now for warmth than anything else. When she has tied off the last strip she collects her lance and stands, shaking the stiffness out of her legs and walking around the lake to the left.

There are some rocky outcroppings on the other side of the lake, and she widens her circle to detour behind them. As she rounds the corner, the lake falling out of sight, there's a startled squawk and two chocobo dart a few steps in the other direction. They mill around each other for a moment while Fang stands there, deliberately non threatening, and then one of them dances a cautious step forward. It advances slowly, head tilted, and then carefully stretches its neck out and nudges Fang with its beak.

She's not sure what it's doing - do chocobo use scent? Is it sniffing her? Or is she about to be attacked - and then it pulls back, squawks at the other one over its shoulder and then jostles into her, almost cooing.

She shudders out a breath, because she knows what that means, she _knows_ \- it can't have been that long, then, because the chocobo has recognised her. It _recognised_ her. 

For the first since she woke up cold and alone and surrounded by crystal, Fang smiles.

***

She stays there a while, tucked in close against the chocobo and letting its heat leech into her. When the breeze picks up, fingers of wind cold against her neck and ruffling the chocobo's feathers, it lets out a soft squawk and lifts its head, nudging her with its beak. The sun has dropped behind the red mountains, and the twilight is thickening around them.

"Alright," she says softly, unslings her lance and pulls herself up onto the chocobo's back. She wobbles for a moment - it might have only been two days for her since she last rode but she's still weak from crystal sleep and her long descent - but the chocobo stays rock still until she regains her balance, winding one hand in the feathers further up its back and settling her lance in her lap.

"I'm ready," she tells the chocobo, and it squawks again at her, stretches its neck forward and starts to run.

It doesn't seem to need directions from her, for which she is grateful - with the contrast of the chocobo's heat beneath her, she's suddenly aware of just how cold the air is around her, rushing past now with the speed of the chocobo's run. She tucks her feet against the chocobo's side and leans sideways, trying to tuck down behind the chocobo's head and conserve her warmth. With any luck, wherever the chocobo is heading won't be too far away.

There's a jolt as the chocobo jumps a small outcropping in their path, and then rock walls rise high around them, the chocobo slowing down. She knows where they are now, and then they come around the final corner, the valley opening up before her. There's the lake she remembers, cradled at the end of the valley, and clustered around in three or four groups are other chocobo, grazing peacefully amongst the reeds and grasses. It looks a little drier than she remembers it, but that might not be a sign of anything untoward, just winter on the Steppe.

Her chocobo comes to a gentle halt, and Fang uncrosses her legs and slides down, letting her hand linger on its side. With the exception of the sahagin that used to live here, everything seems just as she remembers it. There isn't even any snow, the valley sheltered enough by the rock rising high around them.

The chocobo nudges her, cooing again, and wanders off a few steps, dropping its head to nose through a patch of longer grass nearby.

"Well, here we are," Fang says, and makes her way with the last of the light over towards the lake proper, where she can see what looks like a sheltered spot for her to sleep. She lays her lance down and starts unwinding her sari. She can put her back to those rushes, and the little sandy hollow should hold the heat of her body and keep her warm.

She pulls the silk around her and curls up on the ground. It's cold at first, and she tucks her hands into her armpits, shivering. She'll warm up eventually, she knows that, but right now she's cold, and alone, and even the sight of a familiar sky is denied her, stars she might know still covered by cloud.

The first chirp of a chocobo much closer than she's expecting startles her badly, and she's half upright and starting to thrash out of the cocoon of her sari before she places the noise.

"Sorry," she mutters into the darkness, cheeks burning, and lowers herself back down, pulling the silk around her again. Another soft chirp answers her, and then in a rustle of feathers a chocobo is lying down next to her. It wriggles around for a moment, fluffing and refolding its wings, and then leans against her. The length of its body is longer than the ball she's curled herself in, and the edge of its wing rests over her a little, sheltering her from the cold.

For just a moment, she has to fight down a surge of emotion. She can't think, won't think, and she's no use to anyone if simple warmth is enough to bring her to tears. She focuses on breathing in, breathing out, until the ragged edges of her breaths smooth out into a steady rhythm and she's not thinking of anything at all.

***

This time, she sleeps the whole night through.

***

When she wakes, she's warm, _really_ warm, from her fingers all the way to her toes. She wriggles a hand free from her nest of silk to rub at her eyes, and the chocobo beside her chirps her a good morning.

"Hello," Fang says, and sits up. The sky is still cloudy, but light is starting to filter into the valley. The other chocobo are stirring from their various nests, piled together in small groups across the valley in what must be sheltered positions. The chocobo beside her - and it must be _her_ chocobo, the one that recognised her - draws in its wings, pushes itself slowly to its feet, and ambles over towards the lake.

She unwinds herself from her sari and dresses again. The air is a little chill, but she's had a night of warmth and that's enough to fortify herself again against the day to come; she's got a lot of ground to cover in her search.

She collects her lance and slings it onto her back. If her memory serves, and the plants are still there, there should be some edible bushes over near where the little machine hangs in the air, near the entrance to the valley.

She gets most of the way before she realises she can't see the machine in the air.

Panic shoots through her, sharp and painful. _How long has it been_ , her mind whispers to her, _how long has it been for the machine to have fallen_ \- Her breathing quickens quite without her control, and her last few steps are almost a stumble.

The machine is half-covered in the brown remains of some kind of plant, something that clearly wasn't strong enough to survive a winter on the Steppe. She kneels beside it and pulls the withered stems away with shaking hands, but the machine is inert, rust etched like dripping lines from the metal seams.

She's not good with machines, not like Sazh. She can't look at the rust and say how old it is, how long it's been since it functioned. She's familiar with winters in Oerba, of course, five hundred years past - but it rarely snowed there, and she has no frame of reference to compare this machine with the metal in Oerba, which rusted more from the salt water of the ocean than anything else.

She takes a breath, pushes everything back down. The machine can tell her nothing she has the knowledge to understand; she will gain nothing more from staring at it and thinking of what might be.

She shifts off her knees, brushing off the dirt and the brown stem of one of the dead plants. She should concern herself with the live plants that she can eat, because that, that is something she can actually _do_.

***

The chocobo joins her after a while, and she pushes herself up to stand, scratching it behind its long ear-tails.

"Are you offering to come with me, then?" Fang asks, and the chocobo just squawks at her, bending its head into her fingers.

She huffs out a breath. "Well, all right then," she says and unslings her lance.

After a night of sleep she's a little steadier, and there's no wobbling when she pulls herself onto the chocobo's back. Once again, it waits until she's settled, one hand in its feathers, before it starts moving, back down the passage that will take them back to the Steppe proper. It slows down almost immediately though, as they reach the end of the narrow passage and the Steppe opens up before them.

"Asking directions this time?" Fang asks, and glances around. It makes sense to check out the nearest places first before ranging further afield, and the entrance to the path to Yaschas Massif is closest to her current position.

She points the chocobo to the right, and they skirt a small lake, heading along the cliff-face. The entrance to the passage comes sooner than she's expecting, and she glances at the chocobo - this is where they used to get thrown off, the Steppe chocobo not wanting to venture out of their familiar territory. This chocobo makes no move to stop, however, although it does slow its pace and fluff out its feathers as they ride into the shadow of the narrow passage.

The path twists and turns, the chocobo holding its steady pace, and then they turn a corner and Vallis Media opens up around them, the place where she'd returned to Gran Pulse after her first long departure, not so long ago. There's no snow here, and she walks the chocobo into their campsite, looking around. There used to be another floating machine here, but when she finally locates its position it's down on the ground too, just as rusted and covered in dead plants as the one in the valley of the chocobo.

She sighs, taking one last glance around, and points the chocobo up the path in the direction of Yaschas Massif.

***

They make it to just past the little stream where Hope had fought and claimed Alexander before their way is halted. The path ahead is choked with rocks and debris, a huge rockslide that towers over her nearly to the top of the high walls of the passage.

"Well, that answers that question," Fang says, and sighs. If anyone had settled in Yaschas Massif they wouldn't have let such an obstacle stand between them and the Steppe; that the rockslide had not been cleared was indication enough that nothing beyond remained to investigate.

She guides the chocobo as close as it will go, sidling along the edges of the debris; whenever it happened, it's been there long enough that greenery has begun to grow between the rocks.

"Let's go," Fang tells the chocobo, and turns its head back to the Steppe.

***

The road to Haerii, in the end, is just as fruitless. Her chocobo makes the leap up to the passage entrance with ease, and the wide valley where the Ochu laired is still there, although there's a light dusting of snow across the grass and no sheep; but the passage on the other side that leads to the ruins of Haerii is blocked, what looks like another rockslide choking the entire tunnel in solid rubble.

If Fang is honest with herself, she hadn't been looking forward to visiting Haerii, in any case; the ruined city is thick with ghosts, and she's not talking about the wandering Cie'th. She'd seen Haerii once, when she was younger; the proud spires rising into the sky, flags streaming in the wind. When they'd returned, five hundred years later-

Haerii was full of echos, and when Fang had walked amongst the ruins, in between fighting off the Cie'th, her skin had prickled with goosebumps. She'd felt that if she'd just stopped and listened, she would have been able to hear whispers on the wind, the screams of the people of Haerii as they fell, to war, and to Cie'th, and to loneliness.

The chocobo squawks gently at her, and she shakes herself out of her thoughts. There is no need to investigate further; this rockslide, like the other, has its own greenery, suggesting it has been there for some time, and she can see no way past or around.

She makes the Gran Pulse gesture of respect and turns the chocobo away, leaving Haerii behind, entombed with its ghosts.

***

When they return to the Steppe, she looks around to place the sun, and is surprised to find it lowering towards the red mountains. She can't investigate in darkness, and she has run out of places to look at this end of the Steppe; any more investigation today will not be fruitful.

She points the chocobo back towards the valley where the chocobo nest. She will spend the night there again, and then set out in the morning for the northern side of the Steppe. And if there's nothing there...

If there's nothing there, she will keep looking. Taejin's Tower, Oerba - further if she has to; places she hasn't walked in five hundred years. She'll keep looking, has to keep looking.

She made a promise, and she's going to keep it.

***

She's not so lucky as to have two nights of dreamless sleep, but this time when she thrashes awake from the tangle of her sari, air chill in her throat as she gasps for breath, she doesn't feel so alone.

***

She wakes when the chocobo stirs next to her, shuffling its wings and stretching its neck.

"Good morning," she tells it, and it squawks gently in reply, nudging her head carefully with its beak.

"I-" she says, and then shakes her head, because here she is about to talk to a _chocobo_. But Chocobo Chick had always seemed to understand Sazh, and anyway, who else is here to listen? "I want to travel north," she says to it. "I don't know how far I'll need to go. I'll walk if I have to, but if you could carry me - even part of the way-"

The chocobo squawks at her, rising to its feet, and ambles over towards the lake.

Fang sighs, and starts struggling out of the mess she's made of her sari in the night. She has nothing with which to carry water, but she can forage more of those plants, can tear more strips from her sari and tie them into bunches to hang from her belt.

She can't know how far she has to travel, can't think about what might be. She will take as much food as she can carry, and if it's not enough she'll forage more along the way. She's a warrior of the clan of Yun, and if she can't keep herself alive and fed on Gran Pulse she doesn't deserve to eat.

She tucks the last fold of silk away and bends to pick up her lance.

***

She takes her time harvesting the plants, tying them into neat bunches and hanging them next to her tails. She goes to the lake and scoops up water in a cupped hand, drinking slowly until she has drunk her fill. She wraps her hands carefully in their strips of silk, loitering near the exit to the valley.

Finally she can wait no longer; the chocobo has not come, and she does not know it well enough to pick out of the chocobo that mill around the valley, squawking quietly amongst themselves. It has made its choice; she has her own promises to keep.

She slings her lance onto her back, and turns away.

***

It's another cloudy day on the Steppe. Without the speed of the chocobo, there's not as much wind; there's a small breeze, but it does nothing more than tug at the ends of her sari, catch playfully at the strands of her hair.

She's just grateful that it still hasn't snowed again; she might be tall, able to break through snowdrifts with her lance - but for all that her boots are made for Oerba, holes in the toes and heels. There's still snow on the ground, of course, but it's low and mostly slushy, and as long as she keeps moving it doesn't bother her too much.

She glances around as she walks; just like yesterday and the day before, the smaller animals that had crowded the Steppe last she'd walked it are nowhere to be seen. She supposes it's a blessing rather than a curse; for once she's not looking for a fight. Not until she works out what's going on with her magic. The last thing she wants is to be fighting something dangerous, something that has a _chance_ at taking her down while she's solo, and reach instinctively for magic that will knock her flat instead of hitting the thing.

The lack of creatures soothes her, and the snow deadens sound, so it's not until something squawks from _right behind her_ that she realises she's not alone. She spins sharply, heart beating almost right out of her chest, and unslings her lance-

But it's not a creature, nothing dangerous, and she digs the point of her lance into the ground and takes deep breaths until her heart evens out, her chocobo taking slow steps forward until it can butt its head against her shoulder.

Fang presses her cheek against the soft feathers, breathing in and out. "Sorry for leaving without you," she says. "I didn't think you were going to come."

The chocobo chirps gently at her, and nudges her shoulder, this time with purpose.

"Thanks," she says, pulls her lance out of the ground, and hauls herself up.

***

With the chocobo, it's much faster; they make good time towards the north side of the Steppe. They're most of the way there when the chocobo suddenly pulls up short, pricks up its head, and squawks.

Fang knows that sound, remembers it from days riding across the Steppe, hoping to ease the pain of just one more Cie'thstone trapped in eternal misery, chasing down Mark after Mark after Mark.

"Where is it?" she asks, and the chocobo squawks again, changes direction, and dashes off at an angle. It turns sharply twice more, and then squawks again, almost bouncing underneath her.

The chocobo bends its head to dig, and she remembers laughing last time they did this, her friends by her side, strong and proud in the wilds of Gran Pulse even if they did have the shadow of Cocoon hanging over them. She swallows, looking away, and misses the moment where the chocobo squawks in triumph, lifting its head with something clutched in its beak.

"What did you get?" Fang asks, lifting her arm, and the chocobo turns and drops the thing into her outstretched hand.

It takes her a second to work out what she's seeing - the fabric is old, stained and slightly torn at one end - and then she realises, and it's like the entire world just falls away, her next breath shallow and unsteady. For such a tiny thing, the heavy air of magic that hangs over it is unmistakeable, old and powerful and laced through with her scent. It's a ribbon, _her_ ribbon, but what that means, what it means for it to be here, to be _here_ on Gran Pulse-

 _You should have this_ , Lightning had said, handing her the Seraph's crown. Fang was more often than not the target of the creatures' magic, and it made sense for her to carry the crown, weave its magic into her own and protect her against it. This new magic was dark and powerful and stunk of fear and pain and death, and she'd take anything that helped her withstand it.

They'd worked out, though, that each of them could really only stand to weave in a few of the items they found - try to weave in too many and it destabilised you, pulled you this way and that and caused your magic to fail.

 _What are you going to swap out_? Hope had asked, but there wasn't really a question; the monsters weren't casting anything with horrible side effects except for the spell Fang had nicknamed 'death', so there was no need for her to wear it now, and she could always swap it back in later if she needs to.

She slides the crown into her hair - it's more a fancy-looking hair comb rather than a crown, but she can feel the magic woven through it and she's not going to argue names with something that powerful - and starts untying the ribbon from her arm.

 _Here_ , she says, slipping the last knot and holding the ribbon out for Lightning. _Will you hold it for me_?

 _Of course_ , Lightning had said, and when she'd reached for it their fingers brushed-

It means everything. She might not know yet how long she has slept, might not know where the others are, but the ribbon means that whatever might have happened in the interim aside, they saved them. She _saved_ them.

She lifts her hand to her arm, sliding the ribbon around and fumbling a loose knot. She carried it for so long, _knows_ the magic it holds, and it recognises her in turn. It's easy to grasp the threads that hum around it and weave them into herself, and it slips into place with such an easy familiarity, filling a space she hadn't even realised she was missing.

 _Will you hold it for me_? she'd asked, and she'd given it to Lightning. And now it was here, on Gran Pulse, with only one way that she can see to get here from Orphan's cradle. Something tight unfurls in her chest, a sharp ache easing inside her.

It means everything, because it means Lightning _survived_.

***

They reach the switchback turn that leads down to Mah'habara soon after. She rides cautiously, remembering the territorial conflicts that used to happen between a king behemoth and a megistotherian near the entrance, but there's no evidence of either creature today, the soft dusting of snow that still clings to the ground undisturbed.

The chocobo slows and comes to a halt, rustling its feathers and peering down the passage, and really, Fang can't blame it for being nervous; she's not sure _she_ wants to travel the subterra. Not without knowing in advance what's down there, and certainly not while knowing that Atmos was their only way through with no guarantee that the fal'Cie is even still in the area.

"I think we'll travel overland," Fang says, and the chocobo squawks and turns hastily away.

They backtrack along the edge of the deep fissure while Fang gets her bearings. The spire lies overland from the Steppe but on the wrong side of the fissure from where she needs to be, so she can't simply trace back her steps from a few days ago and follow the path that way. She needs to get to the other side of the fissure, which means following it back to the south until there's a way to get across.

The fissure extends a good half way back towards the valley of chocobo, before ending abruptly at a sharp cliff face. There's nothing so much as a ledge or handhold, just bare rock higher than the chocobo can jump.

The chocobo squawks in a low tone, shifting from foot to foot. "I don't think we can get up here," Fang says. "Let's follow it down."

The chocobo squawks again and starts pacing slowly around. Fang keeps an eye on the cliff face, watching for any breaks in the rock where they might be able to ascend. The line of the cliff starts to soften, a few small patches of grass and tiny plants clinging to the face here and there, and then the chocobo stops abruptly, turning its head and squawking at Fang.

"Here?" she asks, leaning over to get a good look. There are two small ledges on the cliff face, and coupled with a break in the top edge of the cliff it might just be enough for the chocobo to jump.

She straightens up and tucks her lance in close to her body, taking a firm hold of the feathers on the chocobo's back.

"I'm ready," she says, and the chocobo backs up three careful steps.

It squawks once, then darts forward. Fang can feel it gathering itself under her, and then there's a lurch as it jumps. They barely touch down on each ledge before it throws itself upward again, and when the chocobo lands at the top, for one heart stopping moment they have to scrabble for sure footing. The chocobo staggers to the side, and Fang throws her weight the other way, hearing rocks clatter down the cliff face only inches away. The chocobo stretches its head forward, squawking desperately, and snaps out its wings, feathers brushing sharply past Fang's legs. It flaps hard, and it's just enough; they stagger forward, away from the edge of the cliff, the chocobo's breath whistling through its nose and sides heaving against her legs.

They stagger to a halt, and Fang slides down immediately, stabbing her lance into the slush and rounding the chocobo's wing to its head.

"You did it," she says, soothing her fingers through the feathers on its neck, and it squawks feebly at her, head low and shivering. "You're being very brave."

It leans its head against her shoulder, and they stay there for a minute. Gradually its shivering eases, and when its finally still it lifts its head and chirps at her.

"It's okay," Fang says, smiling, and cards her fingers through its feathers one more time before dropping her hand to its side. "We all have our moments."

The chocobo pokes her in the shoulder, and she smiles again and pulls her lance from the ground. "Let's see where we are, shall we?"

The ground slopes up from here, still, but it's certainly not the cliff of earlier; she starts out walking along beside the chocobo, trying to give it a chance to calm, but soon the ground worsens and she's almost stumbling over loose rocks every other step. The chocobo eventually butts her in the shoulder and squawks, holding steady until she sighs and pulls herself up.

"Sorry," she mutters when she's aloft, and pats at the handful of feathers she can reach. "As long as you're okay."

The chocobo squawks and starts moving again, and now that it's not trying to keep pace with her slow crawl they're moving much faster. The ground starts to level out, vegetation growing sparser between large patches of dirt and gravel, and then suddenly they reach the top, the world dropping away before them.

Fang feels her breath catch as the chocobo comes to a halt near the edge. The overland wilds of Gran Pulse stretch out before them, a jumble of brown cliffs and green scrub and trees, all overlaid with a dusting of white snow. It's split down the middle by a river, blue and flowing even now, although she can see what looks like patches of ice in the shallows. Even if the river was shallow or slow-flowing enough to freeze, though, Fang doesn't think it would last - a small herd of oretoise are making their way down the centre of the river, off into the wilds, and she has yet to meet the sheet of ice that can withstand the heavy foot of an oretoise.

It's beautiful, wild and untamed - and without a single sign of human habitation.

Fang sighs. "Let's get down to the river," she says, and the chocobo turns from the vista, starting to pick its way down the slope. If the river hasn't changed course since last she'd travelled overland, they could travel along it for quite a ways before it tunnelled underground and joined the Sulyya Springs. And, of course, if anyone had settled in the wilds, they would need a reliable source of water. 

She shuts out the voice that whispers _five hundred years, anything could have changed_. She can't think about that, not now; not when her knowledge is the only thing that's going to keep her and her chocobo alive. If she can't believe in anything else, can't think about what she might find, she can at least believe in herself.

She has to.

***

The river is bitingly cold, but both Fang and the chocobo take the opportunity for a drink. She checks the position of the sun when they're both done, still nothing but a slightly brighter spot behind the thick clouds, and frowns. 

"Do the clouds look worse to you?" she mutters, staring into sky that looks much more grey and threatening than it had earlier. 

The chocobo squawks kind of anxiously, and Fang reaches out and strokes its shoulder, just above the wing.

"Okay," she says. "Let's cross and get moving again, and look for some kind of shelter."

Fang tucks her legs up as the chocobo splashes through the river, and then they turn and head along the bank, Fang keeping her gaze alert. There's nothing here that looks like shelter, but further up the river there looks to be several small escarpments running out into the wilds from the banks; perhaps there will be a cave, or even just an overhang they can take refuge under.

Above them, the sky grows darker.

The snowflakes start drifting out of the sky just after they turn the first bend in the river. They're silent, which always surprises Fang - she's used to Oerba's wild weather, the howl of the wind and the crash of the summer storms, not this quiet whisper.

The first few flakes are soft, delicate brushes against her skin, startlingly cool, and she draws her feet up against the chocobo's side, keeps herself low. There's a reason the subterra was the preferred route from Oerba to the Haerii in the winter, back before she was branded, and it had nothing to do with the terrain. She can only hope that the intervening time has changed the weather patterns, but as the flakes get thicker, their touch harsher against her skin, the chance of that recedes.

By the time they curve around the next bend in the river, she can barely see the chocobo's head in front of her.

"We need to get shelter now!" she calls, perhaps louder than she should, but any creature out in this isn't going to pay them the least bit of attention when faced with an impending blizzard.

The chocobo squawks and slows down, taking a few more steps forward before abruptly haring off to the left, away from the water. The river disappears in a swirl of snowflakes and then suddenly they're moving along an escarpment, snow bouncing and whirling off its dark face.

She presses close to the chocobo's side, shivering. She can still feel her fingers, but her toes are a little numb. If they don't find shelter soon, it won't matter whether anyone survived the fall of Cocoon, because she won't be around to find out.

The crystal creeps up her ankles, and she tries to shy away, but her hands are stuck, fingers clenched in something. She can't be here, can't be doing this - she woke up, she woke _up_ and this can't be happening. She drags in a deep breath, freezing air harsh in her lungs, and tries to force her fingers to unclench. She has to get away, but everything's white around her, white and cold and numb and is she crystal already?

There's a shriek from somewhere ahead, and then the ground moves under her and she's falling. She's falling, and falling crystal shatters.

She hits the ground on her side, all the air leaving her in a rush. The chocobo's bent down, face near hers and squawking in her ear, nudging her with its beak. The chocobo.

She hauls in a shuddering breath, freezing air shocking her awake. The _chocobo_. She's not crystal, she's just in the middle of a blizzard and if she doesn't _move_ -

She rolls over, pushes herself to hands and knees. She feels like she's pushing through sand, every motion delayed, slow. She reaches out for her lance, takes two tries to curl her fingers around the grip. She's not shivering, and she's warm and cold at the same time. She _knows_ what that means.

The chocobo shrieks, pokes her in the side. She feels sorry, poor brave chocobo, she dragged it all the way from its sheltered valley on the Steppe and now it's overland above the Mah'habara, in the middle of a blizzard, with a poor broken down l'Cie. She hopes it finds shelter; hopes it, at least, can survive.

The chocobo's beak scratches against her back, and then there's a tug on her sari. Is it - it's trying to _drag_ her, brave stubborn idiot, the only person who could match her in obstinacy, and Fang has to laugh, because doesn't it know? The only person who could out-stubborn Fang is-

 _Lightning_ -

Her next breath lances pain all through her, and she spasms into a cough, doesn't fight the chocobo as it pulls her up. She manages to keep a hold of her lance, staggers into the chocobo's side and throws her other arm around the base of its neck. It releases her sari, and they stumble forward, Fang sinking into the snow with every step. She can't give up, she _can't_ , because she made a promise.

She already let Lightning down, back in Orphan's cradle, and she's never going to do it again.

She made a _promise_.

It doesn't matter, anymore, what she's done; those events are five hundred and however many years in the past. She's fulfilled her Focus, overcome the l'Cie branding; awoken from crystal sleep not once but _twice_. Her mistakes have been paid in full, and then some. She doesn't need to suffer anymore.

She's laughing again, almost more of a gasp in the freezing air, because it's over. It's finally over, and now all she has to do is stay alive long enough to find Lightning.

They stagger forward another two steps, and then the chocobo steps to the side instead of ahead, Fang stumbling to keep up. She trips over her lance and nearly goes down, her lance clattering to the ground, and then it's dark and they're out of the wind, Fang's heaving gasps echoing back at her.

She sinks to her knees, just breathing, and it takes the chocobo's nudge to get her moving again, pulling the end of her lance out of the blizzard and crawling forward a few more feet.

"You did it," she says, her voice a choked rasp. "Brave chocobo. Saved us both."

The chocobo squawks gently at her, nudging at her shoulder, and she starts fumbling with her belts, fingers numb and clumsy. "Right," she croaks. "Need to be warm."

She finally gets the belt open, lets it fall where it will. Her sari is soaked through, but then so are they; it can still shield them a little from the storm. Half of the sari goes over the chocobo, and then it crowds her against the wall of the little cave, sinking down and stretching out a wing. She manages to toss the other half of the sari mostly over the chocobo's wing, trying to cover both of them, before it chirps at her, poking her gently with its beak.

"Okay, okay," she rasps, and curls up against it, tucking her toes in amongst its feathers and shoving her fingers in her armpits. She still feels numb, breath coming in shuddering gasps, and then she's shivering, _freezing_ , and the chocobo is blazing hot, for all that its feathers are just as soaked as she is.

The chocobo's shivering too, just a little, minute tremors of its skin that ruffle its feathers, but nowhere near as violently as she is. It tightens its wing over her, and she breathes, in and out, each breath a victory. Slowly, so slowly, her shivers ease, warmth creeping back into her fingers and toes. It feels like she's been cold forever, like she was five hundred years in crystal but aware, not asleep. It feels like waking up all over again, not a second but a third chance, now. This time, she's going to make things right.

She wriggles closer to the chocobo, turning her face into its feathers. Outside, the blizzard is still raging; here, in their shelter, they're warm, and safe. For the first time, Fang's sure of herself; sure in her path.

Lightning's waiting.


End file.
